Final Page: Sense and Prejudicability
In the fourth instalment (see previous instalments here) of my ‘Final Page’ series, I now present the last page of my period drama ‘Sense and Prejudicability’. First published in 1992, my agent Diane begged me to remove ‘Prejudicability’ from the title, on account of it not being a word. I told her that if she gave me any more lip, I’d replace ‘Sense’ with ‘Gumptionality’. Check mate. Enjoy!
SENSE AND PREJUDICABILITY
By
Flann O’Coonassa
Page 548 of 548
…and though your proposal is kind and genteel in nature, Mr Dashley, I must regretfully decline sir. I do treasure the friendship we have forged this summer, and beg you that our correspondence might continue in a cordial vein, upon your return to London tomorrow morn,” said Lady Chastly.
“Why you Goddamned Mickey-teasing slut-faced bitch,” replied Mr Dashley.
“Mr Dashley!” gasped Lady Chastly.
“Ah, cut the shite. Three months I’ve been minding my ‘P’s and ‘Q’s, playing the society game, bending over backwards trying to get into your knickers. And for what? Not so much as a blowjob. You frigid oul’ bag, you. I’m absolutely gutted.”
“Mr Dashley, I must insist you curb your tongue, sir,” said Lady Chastly sternly.
Mr Dashley removed his gentleman’s wig and threw it in the fire. He then loosened his belt and let a slow, lingering fart that stunk the air green and unsettled the servants.
“That….is….heaven,” said Mr Dashley blissfully. “I haven’t been able to do that for three Goddamned months.”
“Sir, this will not do,” implored Lady Chastly, close to tears.
The butler entered the drawing room.
“May I present the Countess Meddlesworth,” announced the butler drily.
“Sir, you look dishevelled. What is the meaning of this?” she inquired.
“Don’t start with me, you big, fat, meddling oul fossil,” replied Mr Dashley.
“He’s gone quite mad,” replied Lady Chastly, running to her aunt’s side.
“Three months,” said Mr Dashley. “Three months I spent poncing around this dump, courting this wench. All because you suggested she was gamey.”
Countess Meddlesworth moved gracefully to Mr Dashley, removed a glove from her purse, and slapped him lightly across the face with it.
“Remember yourself, sir,” she scolded.
“Do that again, and I’ll take that glove out into the garden, fill it with rocks, come back in and beat you to death with it.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me. To death.”
Unbeknownst to Mr Dashley, his words were heard by Baron Von Pinklesforth, standing just inside the door.
“What is the meaning of this sir? These threats will simply not do,” said Von Pinklesforth.
“Put a sock in it Von Pinkesforth, or so help me, I’ll flip you over and stick it in you. My balls are about to explode, and I’m in the red. I’m warning all of you, someone’s getting it tonight.”
Von Pinklesforth gulped visibly, and retreated several paces until his anus was secured against the nearest wall. Mr Dashley took a bottle of port from the mantelpiece and gulped from it, pausing occasionally to belch wildly.
“Three months…,” he occasionally repeated between swigs, as his three companions looked on in frozen terror.
Now drunk, Mr Dashley began to disrobe. First his pantaloons. Next his waist jacket, breeches and girdle. Soon he was stark-bollock naked.
“Sir, I beg of you,” said a teary Lady Chastly, “if not for my sake, please consider the good Countess Meddlesworth. Please return your member to its holdings.”
“No deal, Chastly. Dashley Junior is out of the cage, and he ain’t going back in till someone gives him a good oul’ tug.”
With that, Countess Meddlesworth fainted. Upon seeing her head collide with the billiards table, Mr Dashley burst into a laughter that spewed a cocktail of snots and bourbon from his nostrils.
“Fuckin, right off the side of the billiards table,” he laughed, before himself collapsing into a drunken stupor on the floor.
When Mr Dashley awoke the next morning, he found himself alone. At first, he had no memory of the previous night’s doings. Moments later, to his horror, he found that he was lying in a cake of his own defecation.
“This won’t do,” said Mr Dashley, his manners finally restored. He selected a pistol from a case in the writing desk drawer, placed the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.
THE END
It seems obvious to me that Mr. Dashley was once the front man of an 80’s heavy metal hair-band and never was able to come to terms with the shaved head and goatee style of the early twentyfirst century. Either that or he really was just a manically depressed, drunkin lout.
Probably a bit of column A, and a little bit of column B too.
I thought the new Jane Austen spinoffs were supposed to have zombies? I demand zombies, sir!
Ah you bring back the memories to me mr O’Coonassa. I first read this fine book for my junior cert in the late 90s. It had an incredible life altering effect upon me. I identified with Mr Dashley. Indeed, years later, while serving quite a severe sentence in a thailand prison for the sexually perverse (A very funny story) I was told that my misognistic rage was inspired by mr Dashley.
Now Im sure that neither the good people in the Thai Justice system, or those unfortunate swedish backpackers would blame you directly for my actions but those said actions are a credit to your creative mind.
Hola Flann!
I am not sure that this is fiction. It sound very much like Cecelia Ahern’s account of the first time Nicky Byrne was introduce to the family.
Besos
Manuel
Which one was Nicky?
sounds like a staff do we had a few years back…..manuel doesn’t go to staff do’s anymore
Fat Sparrow: I hear you on the zombie front. An early draft had Mr Dashley shooting himself, rising up and immediately uttering “brains…fresh brains.”
However, a test audience reacted badly to the scene where he killed and fed on the flesh of every single other character in the book, so I un-zombie-afied him (which is a technical writing term).
MRB: Sense and Prejudicability inspired so many of my readers into Turkish and Thai prisons that it was lucrative for me to perform a book tour through some of those prisons when promoting the book’s sequel: Pride and Intellectuallity.
Manuel Estimulo/Sweary: I’ve always imagined Bertie keeping a stately home in a period manner. I’ve further imagined him being a misogynistic, naked bully, but I’m seeing a counsellor about that.
Manuel: Understood Manuel (mental note — cancel the Coddle Pot Christmas do).
You Sir are an utter Cad and an unscrupulous Bounder. Your plagiarism will not go unanswered Sir.
You have lifted your entire plot from the Late Dame Cartland’s ( may she rest in peace)last novel – The Last Duchess.
Doubtless the Good Dame is spinning in her family plot at your sheer audacity.
Have you no Shame? No Morals?
Do you have any idea how many of her fans are incensed by this pornographic outrage?
Expect to hear from them soon…
Lock your doors and windows Sir…
Sir/Madam, though your allegations of plagiarism are not without merit…I can’t think of a way to end this sentence,
Cordially,
Flann
I want a pair of pantaloons.
Don’t we all Maxi, don’t we all. But in today’s economy, it’s just not realistic.
would it be a wild guess to assume you been from the gay side of the river?
Amen to that. The other day I was reduced to MAKING a sandwich to bring to work. Making one. By myself. With my hands. I just thought, God, this is a low point.
Didn’t RTE attempt to make a film of this book? I think Derek Davis was cast as Mr. Dashley
O, I feel your pain. Last night I actually washed the dishes, instead of binning them and buying a new set the following day. Sure, I saved money, but where’s the dignity?
Yes Mucker, Derek Davis was cast as Mr Dashley in the ill-fated RTE production. The whole project went belly-up when Countess Meddlesworth — played by Brenda Fricker — OD’d on crystal meth one week before filming was scheduled to begin.
Two days later a typhoon destroyed the set, and Derek Davis had a heart attack. Later that afternoon, Islamic Jihadists (rare at the time) shot and killed every single member of the crew.
There were a few more calamities I won’t go into, but suffice to say RTE felt the project was doomed, and pulled the plug.
T’would be both wild and inaccurate He-man. My regards to Cringor, She-ra, man at arms…and Skeletor (if you’ve patched things up).
Wonderful…..your Mr. Dashley brightened up my morning considerably……
MaryAnn
I’m glad you enjoyed it MaryAnn.
Apparently Colin Firth has stated on numerous occasions that he’d rather die than play Mr Dashley in a film adaptation. Which is fine, because Jean Claude Van Damme has been sniffing around the role, and we’re inclined to cast him. Him or Wesley Snipes.
How about Bruce Willis???
Have you heard his English accent MaryAnn? It’s worse than Dick Van Dyke’s in Marry Poppins. Far worse.
My vote is for Wesley Snipes
Mine too Columbo. But he insisted on rewriting the script, and littered it with ‘mudda fucka’. I keep telling him that nobody talked like that in ye olde times, but there’s no telling Wesley Snipes anything.
“Why you Goddamned Mickey-teasing slut-faced bitch,”
Brilliant
Undoubtedly my most eloquent hour Rua. I doubt James Joyce could have trumped me on that line.